Michael D Woods

I’ve been thinking quite a bit about writing lately. More specifically, I’ve been thinking about my writing. I haven’t been nearly as proactive as I should. Days go by without a single word making its way to the screen. Meanwhile, page after page gets written in my head while I drive from one side of Atlanta to the other. But, at the end of the day, that does nothing for my word count. That brings me back to my recent thoughts, Why can’t I put my ass in the chair and get those words out of my head and into a word file?

When I was in my teens, just finding an interest in writing, it was nothing for me to kick out a 2-3k short story overnight, handwritten on loose-leaf notebook paper. I would be exhausted the next day but I had a story in my notebook that had been a blast to write; just put the pencil on the paper and let my imagination run wild. A pantser before I even knew there was such a thing.

I admit, those early stories lacked anything resembling skill. Hell, most were lucky if they even had a consistent plot. I had a tendency to leave one thread and jump into another. And, good grief, there was sex in every story I put to paper – I blame typical male teen hormones for that.

Then, as I got older, I found books for writers on characters, and plotting, and theme, and. . . Well, you get the point. This young writer became overwhelmed with techniques, rules, and do this, don’t do that. ‘Write what you know’ became the worst mantra I could’ve ever picked up. I lived on the rural side of Bumfuck Nowhere. Nothing but rabbit shit, wild dogs, and backwood creeks as far as the eye could see; never mind the pigs, chickens, cows, and goats right in my back yard. How was I suppose to write what I knew when everything I knew was wild and dirty?

So, I did what felt right at the time. I stopped writing. One night, while lying in bed, I decided to quit. The voices in my head were becoming unbearable, the stories were swelling and swelling, and no matter what I couldn’t bring myself to write any of it down. None of it would ever compare to those writers I admired so much. I gave up on a dream because I couldn’t tame the rules and get back to just writing for the sheer enjoyment of it. That inner critic had mutated. He had grown talons and teeth and it was just easier to starve the fucker than fight back.

I still tinkered with words here and there. Hell, I’ve always had an obsession words. I couldn’t give ‘em up for good, I just refused to write prose. Instead I played with the juxtaposition of words and meanings, turns of phrases and punctuation in brief bursts of verbiage. As much as it made me smile it wasn’t enough to scratch that storyteller’s itch. Little by little, I was withering away inside. My creative energies were dissipating and only the smallest part of me recognized that fact.

I was losing myself.

To Be Continued

You have to understand Tethers to begin grasping the bigger pictures. They’re the brush strokes of the larger canvas. They are the ties that bind; strands that run through all things, past, present, and future. Each of us, every man, woman, child, even the beasts of the world, are bound to a Tether that represents us as distinctly as a fingerprint.

As we move through life, making emotional connections to people, places, and things, we leave a strand of our Tether attached to that relationship. We spin a web out to all the things we deem important, with us dominating the center.

Throughout the ages mediums and soothsayers have unwittingly employed Tethers in their respective trades. Mediums glimpsed the past, the memories and the ghosts that dwell there. A soothsayer gazed into the future.

The fog of all the accumulated Tethers creates what we know as the Veil. Metaphysically entwined within that fog, existing parallel to the real world, sits The Other. A Compass, with some effort, can part the Veil like a doorway and step through into The Other. Depending on one’s abilities and the location it can be as simple as stepping through a bead curtain or as difficult as opening a vault door.

Though The Other sits squarely within the mists of the Veil, it lacks Tethers of its own. Natives move through their world with very few ties to the world around them. We may draw on the Veil while wandering The Other but it creates something of an anomaly. That world, as well as its agents, may labor to seek out and hamper this deviation. Even our presence there creates an upset within the preternatural order of The Other, cutting a wake through the Veil. A crew’s Shield dampens that wake.

Chapter 6 Notes

Chalk Street is just another burned-out row of tattered concrete and broken re-bar, held together by booze and bad intentions. But it’s the Real World, and the business establishments are semi-legit – or the bribes are paid up enough to be considered so. Either way Bleak Agents tend to ignore the place; at least for the time being.

The rugged citizens milling to and fro along the sidewalks are fairly civilized, so long as you mind your manners and keep your hands to yourself. They aren’t gentle people; life is hard along the outskirts of the cities. A Ghoster can blend here well enough – possibly even find work. Hell, crews lounge in every gin joint on the block waiting for their Crown to snag a heist. View full article »